Everything Changes
by Tidwell
Summary: After Mayfield, life changes in ways House could never have anticipated. H/W Slash. One shot.


**Author's Note: Thanks to Betz88 for the inspiration.**

**Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox!  
**

"Everything Changes"

The windows had been washed. He drew closer, leaning over, sniffing slightly. The combined scents of pine and ammonia tickled his nostrils as he squinted at the pristine pane. The palm print (Amber's?) that had lived there for so long was gone.

Everything changes.

"Yeah," House said softly, dropping his duffle bag on the floor by the sofa. "Yeah."

With a grunt, Wilson picked up the duffle, like the team player he was, and carried it to the bedroom. "God, House, what have you got in here, rocks?"

"Books." He conveniently forgot to mention the John Coltrane CDs and the XBox 360 console. They were necessities too. What Wilson didn't know wouldn't matter in the long run. He would find other things to complain about; that was a given.

"You get the bed," Wilson called, unpacking the suitcase he had carried in from the car when they arrived. House found it comforting to imagine Wilson sorting through his clothes, straightening, folding, doing his Wilson _thing_. It made House doubly glad to be here and so pleased to be out of the hospital. Two months of staring through barred windows and sharing a room with a crazy Cuban named Alvie was more than enough. He had done his time.

"What's wrong with the sofa?" House asked, standing at the entrance to the bedroom.

"It's lumpy and old and wouldn't be the most comfortable place for you to sleep."

"I can deal with it. I used to be crazy, you know."

"Your leg won't take it, House." Wilson frowned at the shirt he was folding, then put two fingers through a hole in the sleeve. "You still want this thing?"

"Yes, I do." Taking two steps forward, House grabbed the shirt and held it behind his back. "Why do you think it's got holes in it?"

"Too much bleach?"

"It's because I wear it. A lot." House looked at the shabby shirt and nodded as if agreeing with himself. "I like it."

"Take a load off," Wilson waved a dismissive hand at him. "Watch TV. Play Oregon Trail on the computer."

"I'd rather go home," House lied, gazing at the rest of his clothes being folded meticulously and neatly into the dresser drawers.

"For now," Wilson looked up from his work. "this _is _home."

* * *

That night he dreamed of wrestling, of muscles and sinew and sweat drenched skin, male bodies enjoying a feast of friction as they tumbled together, over and over on the bright red mat.

As he drifted awake, he saw Wilson's face inches from his own. He could smell the whiskey on his breath, his hair was drenched with...water? Sweat? Their lips touched, tentatively at first, then hard enough so their teeth clicked. Taking a chance, Wilson deployed his tongue to explore this new found territory. To taste.

Still rising from his sleep, House wondered at the softness there. Not a womanly softness, for nothing about Wilson was truly feminine. His prettiness was marred by a pair of bushy eyebrows and a shadow of stubble at the end of the day. The proof of his masculinity stiffened against House's hip.

To House's surprise, his own flaccid member perked up and joined the party.

_This somehow seems right_, House thought, as Wilson cupped his balls inside his warm, dry palms.

Wonderful. A long groan escaped House as Wilson's fingers stroked and probed and fondled. Cursing and hissing, House writhed as those fingers closed around him, pulling and wrenching and jerking.

_somehow it seems right_

He came as the clock in the living room struck the hour.

_Twelve o' clock and all is well._

* * *

Two days later, they were much more comfortable with this shiny new aspect of their relationship. They didn't discuss it; there was no breakfast table chatter, no longing looks across the hospital corridor.

It was much easier to let it progress. _Let's just see where this goes... _

They ate Chinese takeout out of cardboard cartons. House noodled around on the Casio keyboard Wilson had purchased the day before House's release from Mayfield. Then they went to bed, where the world became a feast of hands and mouths and tongues and delicious friction, which rocketed them both toward that pumping, pounding release.

"You know what's different?" House asked as they lay, sweat drenched and sated on rumpled, twisted sheets.

"Huh?"

It's all about the orgasm." This realization was tremendously exhilarating.

"Yes, of course," Wilson murmured, running his fingers over House's ruined thigh. "I never even considered such a thing."

"With a woman, it's different."

"Really?"

"Women like the buildup, the slow ride, which, if the spirit is willing and the old man can last, can be pretty damn rewarding."

"Leave it to you to make such an astute analysis."

"But sex with you is like flying down the field during the final quarter of the Super Bowl. Crash, bang, slam, touchdown!"

"Really?"

"Really."

With his thumb and forefinger, Wilson gripped House's chin, pulling him in for a kiss. "Get me off again," he commanded in a low rasp.

And House obliged.

* * *

He sat in the far corner of the Diagnostics room, listening and ruminating over the case currently being discussed. As a consultant, he could offer suggestions and diagnoses, give advice but not prescribe. He was not permitted to practice, since currently he wasn't a physician in the truest sense of the word. Checking himself in to Mayfield did away with all that. He needed to prove his sanity to his colleagues and Cuddy before he could have his license back.

It seemed fair. He had been set inside a sort of limbo, but it was not an unpleasant place. It was like looking at the world through the wrong pair of glasses. Everything made sense, yet it was all undeniably different.

Foreman seemed to enjoy wielding that Dri-Mark. He listed symptoms on the board, swaggering a bit when he was done. Thirteen and Taub were not impressed.

"Any thoughts, House?" Foreman asked.

"Has anyone gone to the house to check for pesticides or antidepressants?"

They stared at him. Three diagnosticians without a clue.

"Wow, you're good. I like working with you guys." House shrugged. He was not overly invested in this case. It would be solved with or without him. At the moment he was thinking more about the head of Wilson's cock: its girth, its somewhat salty taste. How easy was it to make Wilson climax? He was like a eighteen year old, coming hard, fast and ready for more in twenty minutes.

"Better get to it. Oops, sorry, Foreman. Have I usurped your authority?"

Foreman set the Dri-Mark on top of the whiteboard. He squinted out the window and sighed. "No, House," he said softly. "It's okay."

* * *

"Was this her side of the bed?" The question had bugged House since the first night but he had been afraid to ask, fearful that the mention of Amber would bring her roaring back into his world, intent on following him, haunting him.

"Yes." Wilson shrugged out of his undershirt, threw it on the chair with his boxers, then lay down beside House. "Does it matter?"

"Not to me."

A surreptitious glance around the room told him she had not returned. Relief flooded over him. Relief and something else.

"Tell me what you like," Wilson whispered, his hands were like ghosts hovering over House's slowly rising member.

"We don't talk much anymore, do we?" House said, his gaze making its way from Wilson's face, down to his chest. He reached up, tweaked a nipple, which caused Wilson to flinch and gasp.

"We've talked for years. This is a nice respite."

"You have an agenda."

"Yes, I do." He let out a long breath. "Now, tell me what you like."

"Oh, baby, you knoooow what I like."

The corners of Wilson's mouth twitched. "Thank you, Big Bopper."

"Big is the operative word here."

Wilson's eyes grew wide, pleading. "Just...tell me."

"I like lots of things," he replied, turning on his back and preparing himself for what Wilson did best. "Like a Smorgasbord of lip smackin' treats. It's all sooo good."

* * *

The day he got his license back was the day he went home.

"Everything's changed," he said to Wilson as they stood in the middle of the living room.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No." He leaned on his cane and took a tour of the house, the _step-thump _loud in the quiet. "You aired out the place," he said when he returned.

"I had Lady here every week to dust and open the windows," Wilson said. "No sense you coming home to a stuffy apartment.

House gave him a grave look. "Thank you."

Wilson cleared his throat and gestured toward the kitchen. "There are some meals in the freezer. You can microwave them when you get hungry."

"You're not going to cook?"

"I cooked those meals."

"Not what I meant."

Wilson's gave him a small, sad grin. "I can't live with you, House. I can't live with anybody right now."

"So you've said."

"You need to be on your own for awhile anyway. After all you've been through, you need--"

"Everybody seems to know what I need." House turned and walked into the bedroom. His duffle bag and suitcase sat unpacked and waiting by the nightstand. They might stay that way for a long time.

"You'll be fine." Wilson leaned against the bedroom door.

House responded with a look and a shrug. Tomorrow he would return to work where he would examine and prescribe and be a doctor again. The thought gave him hope he could immerse himself and leave this entire episode behind.

"You busy tomorrow night?" House raised his eyes, giving Wilson a hopeful look.

With a small laugh, Wilson shook his head. "No, I'll be here."

"I won't."

Wilson's smile faded; he opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it after a moment and remained silent.

"You should go," House's hand brushed the handle of his suitcase. "I have stuff to do. The mail's piled up. Journals to read. You know how it is." He winked. "I'll be fine, just like you said."

Never had he seen Wilson so despondent. His shoulders slumped; he ran one hand along the wall as he left the room.

The sound of the front door opening and closing set House in motion. After kicking over his suitcase, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Memories of Wilson, of Mayfield, of those last few weeks before the walls came tumbling down flashed through his head like a relentless slideshow.

Finally he let it go, the last vestiges of those images leaving him as the evening grew late, as the clock struck midnight. As everything changed, yet again.


End file.
